


Of Memory, Ensnared

by redeyedwrath



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 18:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21123494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: "Felix doesn't remember how long he chased Sylvain, doesn't know if he ever stopped."A series of moments that changed Felix Hugo Fraldarius' life.





	Of Memory, Ensnared

**Author's Note:**

> SO it only took one day for me to write another Sylvix fic. Oops? This one's def a bit more Felix-centric though, mostly focused on his uuuh childhood trauma and his relationship with Sylvain... Hope y'all like it!!!
> 
> **Warnings:** Emetophobia, canonical character death

_It's a simple mistake to make_  
_To create love and to fall_  
_So rise, and be a master_  
_'Cause you don't need to be a slave_  
_Of memory, ensnared in a web  
_ _In a cage_

**— A Simple Mistake, Anathema**

* * *

Felix is thirteen years old when Glenn dies. He remembers the day very clearly. 

He's at the Gautier estate, chasing Sylvain around the courtyard. His brother has been chosen to escort the king and his son — he's a knight now — and if Felix wants to keep up with him he'll have to train. So he's chasing Sylvain, pretending it's serious even though Sylvain's gleeful laughter echoes louder through the courtyard than Felix's frustrated huffs.

It's not fair. Sylvain is two years older _and _he's taller. But, if Felix wants to beat Glenn, he'll have to be even faster, because Glenn is three years older and he's a _knight._

Felix doesn't remember how long he chased Sylvain, doesn't know if he ever stopped. He does remember this:

A knight comes rushing through the gates. She's bearing the Fraldarius crest on her chestplate. She's trembling, sweating, exhausted. Felix stops running immediately.

"Hey!" Sylvain yells from across the space. "Why have you stopped? You're not tired, are you?"

It's said as a joke, but Felix barely registers it. Sylvain's father runs to meet the knight, who takes off her helmet. It's Gabrielle, his father's most trusted knight. They talk, frantic, and then their eyes fall on Felix.

Felix just stands there. 

They tell him eventually, Felix remembers. Sylvain's father ushers them inside, his eyes grave and sad, and he tells them. Felix remembers that Sylvain sits stunned next to him. He remembers running away.

He runs and runs and runs. He runs so hard he could catch Sylvain, could catch Glenn — _but he can't catch Glenn anymore, he can't, because Glenn is dead and he's never coming back and Felix doesn't have a brother anymore_. 

He runs until he reaches a frozen-over pool, where he collapses under a tree. His heart is pounding, his muscles aching for oxygen, but he stares at his reflection. He looks at his hair, his eyes, his nose, the shape of his jaw, his mouth. He looks at himself, and all he can think is that Glenn is dead.

Felix remembers that Sylvain finds him eventually, together with his father. He remembers that Sylvain tells him he’ll be okay. He remembers that he sleeps over, that night. He remembers Sylvain crawling into his bed. He remembers thinking that it's not fair that he can finally catch Sylvain, but that he's too tired to do it. 

* * *

It's been nearly four months since Glenn… since Glenn, when Felix's father gets drunk. Felix remembers this, because his father doesn't get drunk.

Felix also remembers this, because he is in his bedroom when it happens. It's dark outside, and Felix is reading a book next to a dying candle. He's supposed to be sleeping, but his father has never paid attention to him — not when Glenn was here, and not when Glenn isn't anymore.

He's reading a book and he's tired when he hears scuffling outside his room. Gabrielle whispers something fiercely, but he ignores it. Then, his father’s voice booms down the hallway, through his door, out of Faerghus and into the rest of Fódlan. 

Felix remembers this, because his father yells, screams, cries, "I wish it hadn't been Glenn. I wish it had been Felix."

* * *

_I wish it had been Felix_ came first, Felix remembers. 

Then, it became _at least he died an honorable death_. 

His father retreats into himself, becomes obsessed with the crown prince. Felix retreats to the training grounds. Dimitri joins him sometimes, just stands in the corner, watching. Felix pretends he isn’t there. 

Felix trains and trains and trains. An honorable death, he thinks, and scoffs at it. He looks at Dimitri, who doesn’t say anything. He thinks _this is who Glenn died for_, and he hates him. He hates Dimitri, and his father, and Sylvain, who hasn’t returned any of his letters. 

The only thing in the Fraldarius estate that responds to him is the straw dummy that moves with the strikes of his sword. He breaks it, crest glowing in the air. He gets another one, and another one, and another one, and another one. 

Until, one day, Felix knows, his father sends him away. 

* * *

Felix is fifteen years old when he is sent to war. He doesn’t have to fight, not like Glenn did, because he’s not a knight, like Glenn was. Felix is fifteen and he’s not a knight. He’s a squire. He remembers sitting in camps, sharpening swords, jumping at the softest sounds, ready to stab anyone who comes near him. 

The ground is muddy beneath their boots, covering everything that isn’t covered in a thick layer of grime. At first, Felix wipes it off, tries to keep everything clean. Now, he just grimaces at it, and accepts that his socks will always be wet, that he will always be cold. 

War is nothing like Felix imagined. Maybe war isn’t the right word for it: war implies equality, implies fierce battles, implies long-time resistance. These rebels don’t stand a chance.

Gabrielle smiles at him sometimes, tired and covered in filth. Felix hands her towels and weapons and removes her armor, and pretends he’s not thinking about Glenn. He wonders if it was like this for Glenn. He wonders if Gabrielle will die an honorable death. He wonders if he will. 

He wonders if his father will be happy. 

Felix is not allowed to go into battle, not yet, but he sneaks into the treeline anyway, carefully hidden, perched on a branch. War is nothing like he imagined. Blood, he remembers. Blood, and limbs and screams. Chaos. Loud noises, footsteps, clanging, trampling.

He remembers a roar. He remembers Dimitri — who was quiet, who melted into walls, who watched him train and never participated — snapping a man’s neck with his bare hands. Dimitri’s hair is red with blood, matted down to his skull, his eyes wide with madness and his face stuck in a rictus grin as he kills man after man after man after man. 

_Honorable_, Felix thinks. 

_This is who Glenn died for_, Felix thinks. 

He remembers throwing up, almost falling out of the tree. There isn’t anything in his stomach but a watery broth, but it’s gone, drips down from his lips. His mouth tastes filthy. His head is pounding. He jumps out and runs away. 

When he reaches their camp, he grabs a sword, clutches it in his hands until his knuckles turn a bloodless white. He doesn’t let go when the knights return, tired but victorious. He doesn’t let go when Dimitri is carried into the camp, leaning on Dedue. 

That night, Felix remembers, is the first night he calls Dimitri a boar. He doesn’t stop doing that, he knows. Not for years. 

* * *

Felix joins the Officers Academy at age seventeen because he’s not a knight, because he wants to fight, and because all he can hear when looks at his father is _I wish it had been Felix_. 

The first thing he does when he arrives, after dropping off his clothes in his bedroom, is take his sword and walk to the training grounds. There, he meets Jeritza, who takes one look at him and then motions for him to attack. Felix smiles and readies his sword. Then, he charges. 

Felix likes Jeritza, he decides. He doesn’t say much, and he’s strong. An almost worthy opponent. 

_An honorable death_, he hears, blocking Jeritza’s strike, stepping back his left foot to keep himself balanced. He’s sweating, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and his heart is pounding. He’s never felt more in control. 

Jeritza feints left and Felix grabs his chance, lunges forward with a clean strike — 

He finds himself on his back, Jeritza standing over him, the corners of his mouth curled up. Felix’s shoulder hurts, his ankle aches where Jeritza tripped him, his sword is somewhere next to him, not in his hand. It’s exhilarating. 

Taking the hand Jeritza offers him, Felix stands up. He dusts off his pants, the sand stubbornly stuck to the fabric at the back, and nods at Jeritza. Jeritza nods back, face blank again. It makes Felix smile: he can appreciate that.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt!” someone says from behind him, the doors creaking as they open. “I heard some noise coming from over here and I hadn’t found anyone yet, so I just thought I’d introduce myself. My name is—” 

_Sylvain Jose Gautier_, Felix doesn’t hear, but he finishes it in his head, even before he’s turned around. Felix remembers freezing. He remembers his sword laying on the ground, his back to Sylvain. He remembers how his heart started beating again. He remembers chasing Sylvain around. 

He clenches his hand. He breathes. 

“Well, well,” he drawls. “I didn’t think _you_ would find your way to the Officers Academy.”

Sylvain is… older. He’s older and he’s _tall_ and his hair is still a bright, vibrant red, curling around his ears. Felix doesn’t think he’ll ever forget seeing Sylvain again, healthy and alive — surprised, his brown eyes warm and wide. Felix’s heart is trying to escape, is making overtime. 

“Felix?!” Sylvain breathes, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Felix rolls his eyes, tries to seem unaffected, but his eyes keep drifting. To Sylvain’s hair, his mouth, the collar bones that peek through his unbuttoned shirt, his forearms. Sylvain, his childhood playmate who he didn’t see after Glenn… 

Felix’s nails bite into his palm. He doesn’t even know what to say to Sylvain. His sword is still on the ground.

“Oh man, you got taller!” Sylvain says, and then he’s walking towards Felix. Felix just stands there, frozen, watching Sylvain get closer and closer and closer until —

Sylvain’s arm wraps around his shoulder. He pulls Felix in, until Felix’s head is almost buried in his shoulder. He’s so _tall_. He’s so tall, and he’s warm, and he smells nice and Felix…

_I wish it had been Felix_. 

Felix pulls back, sneering. His hands are shaking, he knows, and he tries to hide them, tries not to let it show. Sylvain is still grinning at him, and it looks — it looks ugly. Felix hates it, the way it exposes his teeth, how it doesn’t reach his eyes. How fake it is. 

Instead of mentioning it, Felix scoffs, and steps back. Out of range. Closer to his sword. “Have you never heard of keeping your hands to yourself, Sylvain?”

“Aw come on,” Sylvain says, grin only growing larger, his hands open in a parody of hospitality. “What’s a hug between old friends?”

“We were never _friends_,” Felix spits out, trying to inject as much venom into it as possible. “We only knew each other through our parents. I never had a say in it.”

Just for a moment, Felix remembers, Sylvain’s grin dropped. His grin dropped, and his shoulders drooped, and for a moment, he looked more like the boy Felix remembered him to be. But, just as quickly, Sylvain has pasted his expression back on. Felix thinks Sylvain might fit in more with Jeritza than he does. 

Felix doesn’t remember what happens after — just remembers meeting the rest of his house, Sylvain always somewhere close by. It was only their first reunion, Felix knows. The first of many. And, he knows, he never got used to it: seeing Sylvain again, as if for the first time. Seeing him change, seeing his hair get longer, his face sharper, his shoulders broader. 

* * *

The White Heron Cup, Felix will always remember as a mistake. Mostly, this is because the professor chooses _him_ as their house representative. 

Felix does not understand why, and neither does the rest of his house, seemingly. Though they do find it very funny. Sylvain bursts out into laughter when he hears, and even Dedue is smiling when the boar tells him what’s happening. 

Turning on his heel, he walks out of the classroom. That damned laughter follows him throughout the monastery, into his bedroom, down the hallways, into the training grounds. It’s ringing in his ears as he slices at the straw dummy, till its flying everywhere, till he’s breathing so hard his head hurts. 

He shrugs off his overcoat, lets it fall to the ground in a heap, careless. Then he picks up his sword and he goes again. He doesn’t remember how long he’s in the training grounds. He doesn’t remember anything for a little while, too focused on the training dummy. 

The next thing he remembers is the familiar creak of the doors to the training grounds. He turns around, and there, without fail, is Sylvain’s red hair. Felix wishes that he wouldn’t come running, just this once. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says, sheepish. His arm is behind his head, rubbing through his hair, and his shirt slides up. Felix’s eyes snap to the strip of exposed skin, the little freckles, the red hairs. “I thought I might find you here.” 

Goddess, Felix almost would’ve forgotten what he was doing here, had Sylvain not opened his mouth. 

“What do you _want_.”

Sylvain walks in further, footsteps soft, eyes on the sword Felix has in his hand. His palms are out, wrists showing, like Felix is a feral cat that will attack him any second. Felix clenches his jaw, sorely tempted to stab Sylvain just for that, but he reigns himself in. 

Maybe, Felix hopes, Sylvain won’t saying something stupid this time. 

His hopes are dashed when Sylvain opens his mouth. “Just thought I could show you some moves for the ball. I bet I can help you impress some of the ladies.”

And then he _winks_. He winks, and he grins, and Felix has never hated him more than in that very second. All Sylvain does is talk about women, and flirt with them, and then run to Felix or Ingrid when it inevitably backfires, and Felix is so _sick_ of it. His heart is pounding, but he has to say it. He has to say it, or he’ll punch Sylvain in the face.

“How many times,” he starts, hoping he seems calm and not like he’s about to explode, “do I have to say it before you realize that I’m _not interested_.”

And this is the moment Felix will remember. This moment, when Sylvain’s eyes widen, and Felix worries Sylvain will hate him because he _knows_. Of course, he doesn’t mind Dorothea, or Linhardt, but maybe he’ll mind Felix. 

But then, slowly, Sylvain’s eyes melt into a kind understanding that makes Felix want to run. Run, or throw his sword at Sylvain’s face so he’ll stop looking at Felix like that. 

_I wish it had been Felix. I wish it had been Felix. _

“Just… Go away, Sylvain,” Felix says, and he feels so tired suddenly. His shoulders droop and he rubs a hand over his face. 

For once, Felix knows, Sylvain listens. As he reaches the door, though, Sylvain looks over his shoulder and winks at Felix. Felix mimes throwing his sword at Sylvain, who runs away, laughing. 

It’s been four years, Felix remembers thinking, staring at the door. Four years, and he still has not stopped chasing. 

* * *

Garreg Mach falls.

It falls, Felix remembers vividly, anticlimactically. It falls, because they lose. Edelgard drives them out, Rhea is nowhere to be found, and the professor — _their_ professor — fell into a ravine. Dimitri is gone, probably put down like the boar he is, and that fool of a vassal probably followed him, even in death. 

_An honorable death_, Felix thinks. _And it wasn’t even me_. 

He flees, together with the rest of the Blue Lions. Their class, reduced to just six people with a horse and a pegasus between them. All they have is the clothes on their back, chased out and exterminated like rats. 

He doesn’t remember how long they run. All he remembers is that he was cold, and hungry, and scared. Annette breaks down into tears, and so does Ashe. Mercedes tries to console them. Felix is too tired to cry. He is seventeen and he’s surrounded by death. 

One night, though, when Felix knows they’re close to Charon territory, close to making it, it starts raining. Everyone is wet within seconds, their campfire is a disaster, the horse and the pegasus panic when it starts thundering. 

On his right is Annette, curled up and sleeping. She had collapsed the second they’d found the cave, and they had to put her in a comfortable spot, so she wouldn’t be too sore tomorrow. There is barely any space on his left, and he’s nearly fallen asleep when he hears scuffling nearby. 

He remembers being tired, and confused. He remembers opening an eye, his vision unfocused with exhaustion, and seeing red hair and brown eyes. Sylvain winks at him — out of his armor, only dressed in his undershirt, which is thin, but Felix is so, _so _tired — and lies down next to him, pinned between Felix and the wall. 

If this were any other time, Felix would’ve punched him. Now, Felix just closes his eyes, and falls asleep, his head resting on Sylvain’s shoulder. 

Later, Felix obsesses over this moment. Over the thin layer of fabric in between Sylvain’s skin and his, over the smell, the warmth, the closeness. Later, Felix knows, this was the beginning of the end. 

* * *

Felix will never forget seeing Dimitri again after five years. He stinks, he’s covered in filth, and he’s dead. Felix had accepted Dimitri’s death five years ago — _honorable_ — and he sees no reason to change this. The man in front of him is not Dimitri, is just a shell. It’s the roar he heard in Western Faerghus, that blond hair matted down with blood, that rictus grin as it snapped a man’s neck. 

Dimitri died five years ago. 

He focuses on the rest of the Blue Lions. They had split up back then, after reaching Charon, and he’s seen none of them these past five years either. He’s glad to see they’re in good health.

Sylvain’s face is worth remembering. Felix was thirteen the last time he saw that smile, before Glenn died, before his father started talking about honor and knights to Felix and started focusing on Dimitri. Sylvain’s smile reaches his eyes, and his hair is longer, his jaw sharper, his shoulders broader. He’s still tall, and he has a scar on his cheek — just beneath where Miklan’s started — and he has never looked more beautiful. 

Felix lets out a breath, and grabs Sylvain by his — broad, very broad — shoulder. And he pulls him in. 

The armor makes the hug uncomfortable, but Felix doesn’t care. Sylvain lets out a huff of laughter, and Felix freezes, but then his arms wrap around Felix and Felix doesn’t care. He doesn’t _care_. He wants time to stop, and just stay here. Just for a moment.

This is what Felix tries to remember most of the Blue Lions reunion. He tries not to think about Dimitri’s shell. He tries not to think about where their professor was these past five years. He tries to remember Sylvain, and his armor, and his smile. 

* * *

Felix is twenty-two years old when his father dies. 

He’d come back for the boar, because of course he had. Felix had watched his father ride into the monastery, side by side with the professor, and immediately run off to greet Dimitri. Felix has been training for nine years. He has been a squire, he has been to school. He has bested everyone in sword combat, except for their professor. 

Except for Dimitri. 

_I wish it had been Felix_. 

His father runs around the monastery, doing Dimitri’s bidding. Felix sees him talking to the professor a few times, and once, his father nods at him. Felix stares, blinks, and turns away. Sylvain is standing close, frowning, looking between Felix and his father. 

Felix watches Sylvain scrutinize his father, his shoulders tense, his eyes narrowed. When he looks at Felix, Felix shakes his head. 

That is the most Felix interacts with his father, till they reach the Great Bridge of Myrddin. 

And then, he doesn’t speak to his father at all. 

This time, Felix is there. This time, Felix watches as his family throws itself in front of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. This time, Felix gets to watch as his father collapses, his last words whispered for Dimitri and Dimitri only. Felix is tempted to throw his sword at his dying father, maybe then he’ll finally see that Glenn might’ve died, Glenn might’ve disappeared _but he still has another son_. 

Instead, his father dies in Dimitri’s arms. An honorable death. 

An honorable death. 

_Honorable_. 

Later, Sylvain finds him. Felix isn’t in the training grounds, because he knows people will look for him. Well. The people who aren’t looking at Dimitri, anyway. So, Felix is sitting in Rhea’s private little garden. He watches his own face in the water of the pond, as it ripples with the fish swimming in it. 

His hair is dark. His nose is straight. His eyes are narrow and yellow. Felix has done everything he could, he tried everything, he threw himself into training, threw himself into squiring, threw himself into the Officers Academy. 

And yet. _I wish it had been Felix_. 

When he hears footsteps, he knows it’s Sylvain coming for him. He knows, because the professor is preoccupied with Dimitri and Dedue. He knows, because Mercedes offered to check Dedue over, and Annette never leaves her side. He knows, because he saw the look in Ashe’s eyes when Dedue appeared on the battlefield, so familiar it hurt. He knows, because Ingrid promised to hold vigil over his father’s body. 

He doesn’t flinch when Sylvain sits next to him. He’s trembling, he knows, but he doesn’t cry. He just stares down, at himself, at Sylvain’s head next to his. Sylvain is looking at Felix, staring at his profile. He’s fidgeting, his thumbs twisting around each other. He looks scared. 

Scoffing, Felix bumps his shoulder against Sylvain’s. If he had wanted to throw himself off the tower, he would’ve done so long ago. His father has been lost to him for longer than just today. 

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” Sylvain gasps, playfully, like he’s offended. “I cannot believe you’d be so rude! I raised you to be nicer to your friends.”

It’s such an absurd statement to make, it’s such a non-Sylvain thing to say, that Felix bursts out laughing. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, and it feels so good. He laughs until he can’t breathe, head thrown back. Sylvain looks at him at first, concerned, but then he joins in. 

When he stops, finally, when it’s over, Sylvain’s arm is thrown around his shoulder, and Felix’s head is in the crook of his neck. He stays there, exhausted, and tries not to think too much as Sylvain’s lips press a kiss into his hair. 

* * *

They conquered Enbarr only recently, so Felix remembers it well. This is what he had imagined war to be. War is messy. It’s chaotic. He’s laser-focused on his goal, on Edelgard’s forces, on taking out his former schoolmates. Dimitri and the professor lead the charge, standing side by side, the professor’s Levin Sword glowing like Dimitri’s Areadbhar. 

It’s wave after wave of carnage. Felix blocks, lunges, jumps. His sword slides through flesh like a hot knife through butter. A _Thoron_, crackling down in his arm and into his fingertips, takes care of a row of archers on the battlement. The air fills with the scent of burning fat and hair.

He steps over, through, in dead bodies. He can’t lose sight of Dimitri, of Sylvain, of Annette. Ashe is somewhere behind him, he knows, hanging back and shooting countless arrows that whistle over his head. It seems never ending — Felix remembers the smell of urine, of blood, he remembers the copper taste in his mouth, he remembers his pounding headache, but he doesn’t remember how long he has to fight until they reach the palace doors. 

Dimitri kicks them open with Dedue’s help, his monstrous strength too much in combination with Dedue’s bulk. They filter in in pairs of two, Felix next to Ingrid, whose white pegasus has turned red. 

A soldier comes screaming down the stairs, running for Dimitri — the professor takes him out with the Sword of the Creator, its segments clanking against each other. Felix remembers that one desperate scream, the red carpet becoming even redder, the life fading from that soldier’s eyes. 

Then, he’s fighting again. Dorothea is somewhere behind him, together with a battalion of mages, but he sees Sylvain and Ingrid take off for her, so instead he focuses on the people in front of him, just vague humans shapes through the haze of death. 

He sees Petra, recognizes it’s her somewhere in the back of his head, but all he can think of is himself, and Sylvain, and Dimitri, and the professor. Petra is a strong warrior, but Felix won’t die, not now, and not honorably. She’s quick, he knows — used to spar with her, before Edelgard betrayed all of them. 

She lunges left, hesitates a bit too long, and Felix sees his chance — just a tiny slip up — and his sword finds his way into her chest, twisting it before he pulls it out. Blood spurts from the wound, dyes her skin and clothes a horrid red, flows over his fingers until they’re warm and sticky. 

“I’m sorry,” he says as she slumps against him, and tries to lay her down on the ground so she can die — _honorably_ — when… 

A sharp sting in his side. He looks at her, but she’s already dead, her fingers slipping from the hilt of the dagger buried in his flesh. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, he’s not going to die here. They’re so _close_. He keeps the dagger where it is, but it fucking hurts, adrenaline pumping through his body as he stumbles around, trying to find Mercedes. 

Blood leaks out of him, the dagger twisting with every step he takes. It might’ve hit his kidney — fuck, shit — and Felix falls on the ground, his vision swimming. 

This, he doesn’t remember either. He’s on the ground, he recognizes later, just lying there, his fingers wrapped around the dagger that pierced his stomach. He’s conscious, but his body doesn’t move. He breathes, slowly. Hopes the corner he’s in is dark enough. 

He vaguely remembers cheering at some point. Cheering, and happiness, and then a yell. Something red enters his field of vision, and then someone pries his fingers off the dagger. 

Healing magic, cool and soothing, flows from Mercedes’ exhausted hands into his body, knitting together the damage, the pain compressing until his vision is white. When he comes to, he’s sitting in Sylvain’s lap, Sylvain’s hands — dirty with blood and grime — combing through his hair. 

“Thank the Goddess,” Sylvain whispers, clutching Felix to his chest. “I’m so glad it wasn’t you.” 

* * *

Felix remembers all of it. He remembers every moment, every second, every part of his life that shaped him. But above all, he thinks, he wants to remember _this_. 

Edelgard has fallen, Dimitri is ruling over Fódlan, and peace has returned once more. Felix has found a place by Dimitri’s side, and he turns a blind eye when more and more missives from Almyra start arriving. 

This, Felix thinks, knows, hopes. _This_ was worth it. 

His arms are wrapped around Sylvain

“Felix,” Sylvain mumbles, turning around. Felix loosens his grip to give him some space, but he keeps his fingers on Sylvain’s shoulders, tracing over the scars and freckles scattered across Sylvain’s skin. “G’morning.”

Sylvain burrows deeper into him, till his nose is in the crook of Felix’s neck, his every breath washing over Felix’s skin. Felix shivers at the contact, and he feels the corners of Sylvain’s mouth turn up. Idiot. 

Instead of pushing him away, however, Felix just says, “Morning.”

They lie like that for a while, Felix’s hands combing through Sylvain’s hair, Sylvain’s head resting on his shoulder. Sylvain is warm against him, he’s breathing softly, and for the first time in nine years Felix… lets go. 

It starts small, just little hiccups, hitched breaths through his nose, then his mouth. Then, he’s curled around Sylvain, tears streaming down his face, sobs coming from deep within him, his hands in his hair, just tearing at it, clawing at himself.

Goddess, he’s so pathetic. They’re not even doing anything, nothing is happening, but Sylvain — _Sylvain_. 

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain breathes, propping himself up on his elbow, until he’s leaning over Felix. He’s frowning, mouth turned down, but his eyes are soft. His hand comes up to Felix’s face, touching his cheek. 

Sylvain kisses him then, softly, just a peck, but Felix wants it to last forever. Sylvain smells like sleep, neither of them have brushed their teeth, and Felix is still sobbing softly, but if Felix could choose one moment in his life to relive for eternity, it would be this one. 

“You’re okay,” Sylvain whispers. “We’re okay.”

Felix nods, wiping away his tears, and then he smiles. “We’re okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hhhh so that was it!!! Hope y'all like it ^^ Thank you to Elissa from the Sylvix Discord for beta'ing this and listening to me ramble about the titles!!!
> 
> Please, please, **PLEASE** leave a comment if you liked this fic. I live off validation, so I would really appreciate it if you did <3
> 
> [I also have a twitter if you wanna follow it!](https://twitter.com/reverethedeer)


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